Rainy Monday

Oct. 8, 2018

Bare feet touch hardwood floors

as ice cold rain so heavy pours

from melancholy clouds filling the sky.

Grips o’ rainy Monday  and eight A.M.

my body wishes not to move

’til fills my mind, the scent

of coffee, freshly brewed

and strength swells my legs and spine;

naked body painted in frigged air.

Where’s my robe? My tired throat musters

and I shuffle

to the coffee pot, past the foggy window,

with glowing embers of my soul

thirsty to reignite ‘pon first sip,

and I whisper

to sacred earth that she may have some, too,

if she thinks it will change her attitude,

’cause honey, if Monday comes as this,

what will Tuesday bring?